After another healing walk on the wall….
My pubescent rejection of Catholicism was
proud rebellion. Another easy rejection was poetry—the apex of ambiguity to me;
the most insulting form of writing known to man. Imagine my surprise to find
myself so drawn to it as I age. Nothing gave me greater satisfaction at the end
of my turmoil over moving, than the lines from Little Gidding by T. S. Eliot I wrote in a past post.
And nothing gives me more joy than Gerard
Manley Hopkins’ Pied Beauty during summer’s
penumbra when the smell of autumn is in the air.
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